


In Daylight

by Essie_Cat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chubby Sirius, Comfort Food, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Remus Lupin, Teasing, Touch-Starved, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, being British and emotionally constipated, starts angsty and gets fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26042887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essie_Cat/pseuds/Essie_Cat
Summary: After twelve years in Azkaban and two years on the run, Sirius finally has the chance to settle down. Remus does whatever he can to encourage that.(Or, instead of being bitter and depressed at Grimmauld Place, Sirius gets chubby and domestic and grudgingly happy.)
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 19
Kudos: 234





	In Daylight

Sirius isn’t used to being touched. A tap on the shoulder, a light hand on his arm, can have him tense and guarded, hackles raised, recoiling from the contact. 

Remus tries to bear this in mind when all he wants to do is touch every inch of him, press their bodies together until there isn’t a breath of air between them. When he imagines Sirius’s twelve years in Azkaban, shut away from the world with nothing but his own grim resolve for company, it makes it even more difficult to stay away.

But instead of pulling Sirius into bed on top of him and curling up around him like he wants to, Remus takes the couch, batting away Sirius’s protests that he can sleep on the floor if he needs to, that he won’t take Remus’s bed. 

When he comes downstairs the next morning, dressed in a pair of Remus’s pinstriped pyjamas, he looks like he barely slept, wary and alert.

No one would describe Remus as a large man, but his clothes hang off Sirius’s thin frame. He looks positively feral when Remus places food in front of him on the kitchen table. Toast with butter, two jars of jam to choose from, a bowl of cornflakes with a jug of milk. He eats quickly, territorially, holding the food close and glaring at Remus as though he might snatch the plate away.

‘I can’t stay,’ he says in between bites. ‘Been here too long already. Dumbledore’s suggested a place, somewhere safe. Safe for now, anyway.’

Remus takes a bite of his own toast. He doesn’t want Sirius to leave, not again, with no idea of where he’s going or when, if ever, he’ll be able to return. But there’s nothing to be done. He can’t play house with Sirius, the fugitive, his best friend in the world, the man he barely knows. 

Sirius smothers his toast in raspberry jam. He shovels the cornflakes into his mouth, pouring the leftover milk into the bowl afterwards and drinking it down in huge gulps that click in his throat. He eyes the toast Remus has abandoned on his own plate. ‘Going to eat that?’

Remus pushes the plate towards him. Sirius adds more butter, more jam, and wolfs down the final piece of toast. He winces slightly when he’s finished, running a hand along the line of his stomach, where Remus imagines with a pang that it’s practically concave, that this modest breakfast has stretched it to its limit. 

*

It’s a long time – far too long – until he sees Sirius again. Padfoot arrives unannounced on Remus’s doorstep one day, tongue lolling, eyes sharp. Remus scratches his head as if he were some harmless stray and brings him inside.

Sirius sits at the kitchen table again as he had all those months ago and crows with delight when Remus brings him a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. 

‘Try not to choke,’ Remus tells him as Sirius shoves two chocolate digestives into his mouth at once.

‘Been near Hogsmeade,’ Sirius grunts through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘The catering leaves something to be desired.’ He takes a gulp of tea, practically shuddering as the warmth flows through him.

They talk about Harry, about the Triwizard Tournament and about Dumbledore and about everything else there is to say. Remus learns that Sirius has been sharing rats with Buckbeak, and he cooks him pasta with a rich tomato sauce and plenty of chicken, mushrooms and peppers, with chunks of crusty bread to mop up the sauce, with endless cups of tea and more chocolate digestives and ginger nuts and fig rolls.

‘You’ll stay here tonight,’ Remus says, unsure whether Sirius is planning to head back to his cave, to this fragmented, feral existence he’s found himself in. 

Sirius doesn’t protest. He just shrugs and says, ‘You aren’t sleeping on the couch this time.’

Remus meets his eye, and there’s a dark intensity there, and a small twitch in the corner of his mouth, a traitor of a smile. ‘If you insist,’ he says, noncommittal, still watching Sirius for a reaction. 

Sirius just takes a sip of tea, watching Remus in return, and _Merlin,_ they’re not teenagers, they’re in their thirties and Sirius is still a wanted man and if now isn’t the time then –

‘You’re taking a shower first,’ Remus says, committing a little more, and Sirius grins, picking at the front of his robes as if suddenly surprised by how filthy they are.

Sirius shakes his head, long strands of wet hair flapping and getting droplets all over the carpet.

‘That’s annoying enough when you’re Padfoot,’ Remus tells him, exasperated. ‘It’s downright unbearable now,’ he clarifies, because Sirius is grinning as though under the impression that Remus finds him charming.

Remus rummages through a drawer and pulls out a pair of thick woollen pyjamas, holding them out. 

Sirius glances down at himself, naked but for the towel wrapped around his waist. ‘Something wrong, Moony?’ he teases, and Remus rolls his eyes and politely averts his gaze while Sirius lets the towel drop and steps into the trousers. 

He notes that his clothes aren’t as baggy on Sirius as they were a year ago. Sirius is still thin, still a man on the run who doesn’t know where his next meal is coming from, who resorts to eating rats alongside the hippogriff he’s been living with when he can’t get his hands on anything else. But Remus’s chest aches less when he looks at him now. He looks lean, but not starved. There’s enough flesh on his torso that it folds, slightly, now that he’s sitting down on the edge of the bed. 

Remus really isn’t sure where they stand now, whether it’s all right for him to look at Sirius like this. Whether Sirius is still his to stare at, his to touch and to hold, as he had been in the last good summer of youth far too many years ago.

But maybe the question is answered when Sirius climbs into bed, peeling back the covers, looking up at Remus expectantly. When he slips an arm around Remus’s waist and rests his head on his shoulder. When he says, ‘Fuck, Moony, I’ve missed you’, pure and earnest. 

Remus smiles. ‘Missed you too, Sirius.’

They kiss, and it’s nice, and familiar, and – _god,_ Remus feels as nervous as a schoolboy. He doesn’t do this often – he’s dated on and off, but there aren’t exactly hordes of people queuing up to fuck reserved, greying, unemployed werewolves – and the fact that this is _Sirius_ just makes the whole thing more overwhelming. 

But Sirius might be more nervous still, breaking off a couple of times and avoiding Remus’s gaze before diving back in with renewed vigour, with determination. Seeming surprised, sometimes, when Remus’s skin makes contact with his, taking a moment to relax into the touch. 

Remus knows, rationally, that Sirius has spent such a long time without touch or intimacy, but somehow it’s still gut-wrenching to realise that _he_ is presumably the last person Sirius slept with. And that was fourteen years ago, before Azkaban, before James and Lily, in another life.

‘Sirius,’ he says eventually, pulling back, cupping Sirius’s unshaven cheek, ‘we don’t have to do this. Not tonight. Let’s just sleep, all right?’ 

Sirius stares at him for a moment. Then he nods, tight-lipped, rolling out of bed and pulling his clothes back on. Remus lets him dress, lets him compose himself, before wrapping his arms around Sirius’s narrow waist and pulling him closer again.

‘This was nice,’ he tells him. 

Sirius snorts.

‘You don’t think so?’

Sirius says, ‘You tell me. You’ve had a bit more practice than I have, of course. Have there been many of them? Boys, girls? I hope there were plenty of them, Remus. I hope they were all beautiful and witty and generous and so fucking good to you.’ 

Perhaps it’s meant to be a joke, or perhaps it’s just embarrassment bursting out like bile, but god, it sounds bitter, sounds accusing and resentful and _cruel._

‘Come on,’ Sirius says, his voice shaking slightly, ‘regale me with tales from the exciting love life of Remus Lupin,’ and it feels like he’s saying _Tell me about the life you had out here while I had nothing, while you left me to rot in Azkaban,_ and Remus doesn’t know how to tell him that it hasn’t been much of a life, not really.

*

It’s a new world when Remus sees Sirius’s old house for the first time. Or, an old world alive again. Voldemort returned. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place is a relic of an old world, too. 

‘Would you like a tour?’ Sirius says, blank-eyed. ‘A grand run through the history of the noble and most ancient house of Black?’

Remus doesn’t need a tour of this place that, quite honestly, feels like a mausoleum. He knows how much Sirius despises the place. Sirius looks shrunken, shoulders slightly hunched, arms crossed over his chest. Even once Remus gets him alone in his bedroom, drenched in the rebellious prizes of his bitter adolescence, Sirius is closed off. 

Remus approaches carefully, wary of spooking him. He rests his hands on either side of Sirius’s waist, and Sirius meets his eyes. 

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he says, glancing around at the room, and it’s a mistake to admit that. Sirius’s eyes flash. But it’s true; he is glad of it. ‘Better than the cave.’ 

Better than whatever other places Sirius had found himself living – hiding, squatting – in over the past couple of years. He wants this for Sirius, something normal, something stable, somewhere he can begin to build a life.

Sirius’s lips curl, for a moment, into something that is almost a sneer. ‘The cave had its perks.’

Remus tightens his grip, very slightly, on Sirius’s hips. Leans in, waits for the slightest movement from Sirius to indicate that he wants this, and leans in further when Sirius gives it. 

‘Moony,’ Sirius mutters, and then his hands are in Remus’s hair, firm and insistent, his kiss warm and hungry. He lets Sirius pull him down onto the four-poster bed, lets him arrange Remus on top of him the way he wants. 

He feels very young in moments like this with Sirius, like a bloody teenager again, as though his hair isn’t greyer than ever and his eyes aren’t creased with the beginnings of crow’s feet, as though Sirius isn’t surly and wan and looking less alive by the day. 

He persuades Sirius to have dinner with him, afterwards, and he gets to watch Sirius in the cavernous kitchen of his parents’ old house, fussing about in the pantry with butter and eggs and bread and apologising that he doesn’t have anything better, looking almost domestic as he whips up huge omelettes, heavy with cheese, and thick slices of fried bread. He prepares everything with a look of utmost concentration, treats each ingredient with a sort of care that borders on reverence. Remus’s chest aches a little as he watches him. 

_This is something,_ he wants to tell Sirius. _A good thing. You can make this work. You can be happy here._

* 

He doesn’t have as much time as he would like to spend with Sirius at Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore has him on Order business most of the time, business he can’t always talk about, not even with Sirius. 

‘Let me guess, you can’t tell me where you’ve been,’ Sirius says, but the words are light enough today, not the barbed accusations they sometimes are.

Remus ignores the topic in favour of saying, ‘You look nice,’ and kissing him. He does. It’s still a surprise, sometimes, to see Sirius _groomed_ and _tidy_ like this, in clean robes and without blood and grime on his face and with his shoulder-length hair glossy and smooth. 

Now that Remus is closer and has the chance to study him properly, Sirius actually looks _brighter_ somehow, he thinks. That blank gloom behind his eyes isn’t so strong. There’s some colour to his cheeks under the dark shading of stubble, a little more life to him. He looks good. 

Sirius’s nimble fingers reach for Remus’s buttons and he wrenches the shirt off his shoulders as though the garment offends him. A benefit of getting older is that Remus has shrugged off most of the insecurities he had about his body in his teens, that clung to him even when he tried dating on and off in his twenties. 

He has scars. Lots of them. The jagged lines left by his own claws; the ghosts of incisions left by the wolf’s fierce teeth. If someone can’t deal with that, that is their prerogative. He knows Sirius doesn’t care. Sirius has never cared.

But Sirius seems to hesitate for a moment when Remus, his shirt cast aside and scars on full display, reaches for the fastenings of _his_ robes. He grabs hold of Remus’s hands, holds them still. Sirius has never been self-conscious, certainly not around Remus. 

But perhaps Remus has been reading him wrong. Perhaps he’s having one of those moments where he doesn’t want to be touched. Remus had thought Sirius was past that these days, but his insides lurch with the worry that he’s pushed Sirius into something he doesn’t want, and he freezes. 

‘It’s fine,’ Sirius grunts, releasing his grip on Remus’s hands. ‘Just. Be nice, all right?’

Remus furrows his brow, questioning, as Sirius sheds his own robes quickly, without finesse. Remus lets his eyes drop from Sirius’s face – wearing one of those mulish, determined looks he gets sometimes – and allows his gaze to run down Sirius’s pale throat, past the tangle of dark hair on his chest to his stomach. 

He looks a little different, admittedly, especially to someone familiar with the lean, strong beauty he’d boasted as a teenager, or the pinched, waifish form he’d inhabited over the past year. But it’s not much. A little pooch of tummy sitting above the waistband of his trousers. Barely enough to be noticeable under his robes.

It seems bizarre to Remus that when Sirius had been practically starving, he hadn’t shown any anxiety about his body - but now, with some comfortable extra padding, he feels the need to actually _warn_ Remus before he lays eyes on him. 

Remus lets his hand wander to Sirius’s little belly, wondering if Sirius will try to stop him. He presses his hand gently, experimentally, into the flesh that sits there. Soft, and warm, and there’s some give under his fingers. He isn’t used to that. 

Sirius groans, bats his hand away. ‘Fuck, I just said –’

‘You look wonderful.’ Remus says it without hesitation. 

Sirius’s eyes snap to his. He stares at Remus for a moment, then his face falls into an easy grin. ‘Such a soppy git, Moony.’

*

Whenever he can, Remus tries to spend the night of the full moon at Grimmauld Place. Other Order members tend to give him a wide berth on these nights – some of them out of mistrust, of fear, he suspects, but plenty of them out of a sort of respect, too. It means he gets to spend these nights with Sirius, who’ll distract him with books and chess and Gobstones; with aged wine from his parents’ prized collection in the cellar and bars of rich, creamy chocolate; with meals that Sirius prepares with such preciseness and care. 

When the moon hits, his wolf will curl up on the floor of Sirius’s bedroom, full and sleepy and docile, and Sirius stays with him as Padfoot, for old times’ sake. 

One night after the full moon, Remus pads downstairs to where Sirius is bustling around the kitchen in that weirdly domestic way he has. He’s wearing pyjama trousers and a t-shirt that’s verging on being too small; it clings gently to the curve of his tummy and the little love handles he has now.

Remus never wants to eat much on these mornings, tired and nauseous after his transformation, but Sirius never listens. There’s porridge and fruit and yogurt and bread and butter, all laid out neatly at one end of the large kitchen table, and Remus ignores all of it in favour of slipping his arms around Sirius and pressing himself against his back. ‘Morning.’

They aren’t usually like this outside of the safe confines of Sirius’s bedroom. Around the other Order members, they’re just Black and Lupin, friends, comrades, occasional housemates. The others probably know, but still, neither Remus nor Sirius feels the need to advertise it. They don’t owe the others anything, not where this is concerned. 

But it’s the night after the full moon, and they practically have the house to themselves, and Sirius is warm and comfortable and _his._

‘Feeling all right?’ Sirius asks, turning around and looking him up and down. 

‘Fine.’

Sirius holds him more tightly for a moment, clearly not convinced. Hugging Sirius has always been nice, and it had never occurred to Remus that the experience could be improved. But this softer, more solid version of Sirius is especially nice to hug. Makes him feel _held,_ feel secure. 

‘You’ll feel better if you eat something,’ Sirius says briskly, pre-empting Remus’s protests. He sits down at the table and stares pointedly up at Remus until he joins him.

Remus knows that Sirius is right. He forces himself to have a few mouthfuls of porridge, which feels like glue on his tongue. He takes an apple and a knife and cuts himself slices, eating each one carefully, purposefully, forcing himself to chew, feeling soothed by the sharp acidity. 

Sirius adds sugar to his tea and honey to his porridge. He inhales a bowl of berries and yogurt so quickly that Remus barely registers he’s started it. He slathers butter on thick chunks of bread, trying without success to push one on Remus, eating three or four slices himself.

Remus gives up on his porridge, nudging the bowl in Sirius’s direction instead. Sirius raises his eyebrows. Remus stares back innocently. Sirius sighs, then pulls the bowl towards him, sprinkling some sugar on top before he digs in. 

*

The time Remus spends away from Grimmauld Place - sometimes only a few days, more often weeks at a time - always makes it easier to notice Sirius’s weight. The gentle softness hidden under his robes is becoming more noticeable now, no longer disguised by the bulk of his clothing. His face is starting to fill out, his cheeks growing rounder, his jawline less defined. His belly pushes decisively over his waistband, rounding out the front of his robes.

Hestia makes cheery remarks about Sirius having a healthy appetite. Tonks, who’s something of a picky eater, starts giving him her leftovers at meals. Sirius is gruffly embarrassed by this, but not ungrateful. 

Snape, of course, never misses an opportunity to say something snide about _comfort_ and _indulgence,_ about Sirius hiding in this house _enjoying_ himself while the rest of them are out there risking their necks. Sirius is liable to sulk afterwards, avoiding even Remus and spending a lot of time closeted away upstairs with Buckbeak. But Snape has always been able to rile Sirius, and Sirius has always let it get to him, no matter how much he would deny that. 

‘Filth and scum,’ Kreacher rasps at them habitually, in between calling Sirius _Master_ and rescuing Black family heirlooms from his unworthy clutches. ‘Degenerates and halfbreeds despoiling my mistress’s house, and he’s fatter than ever these days, my poor mistress would be so ashamed –’

When Sirius had first come to Grimmauld Place, he had ranted and raged at Kreacher with the slightest provocation, thrown him bodily out of rooms, threatened him with clothes, called him every name under the sun. But these days he shrugs off the insults with a small growl of frustration, with gritted teeth and a furrowed brow, perhaps, especially if his words pertain to Remus, but nothing more.

*

One morning shortly before Christmas, Remus wakes up to find Sirius attempting to pull on a pair of trousers he has absolutely no business wearing. Remus sits up in bed, running a hand through his greying hair, and watches Sirius tug at the mutinous garment, muttering a stream of colourful phrases under his breath. The thigh area seems to be causing him a little difficulty. 

‘Sirius,’ Remus says. He raises an eyebrow.

‘Don’t give me that,’ Sirius growls.

Remus raises his other eyebrow too, but bites his tongue, watching as Sirius succeeds in getting the trousers past his thighs and his arse and begins the fruitless endeavour of attempting to fasten the button. 

‘They fit,’ Sirius insists.

Remus continues to watch, pointedly not saying a word. But as Sirius continues to struggle with the considerable gap between the two flaps of material, he can’t resist saying, ‘Bit old, are they?’

‘Yes,’ Sirius says obstinately, though Remus is fairly certain they aren’t _that_ old.

Remus stands up off the bed, grabs his wand and looks sceptically at Sirius’s midsection. ‘Do you want some help?’

‘If you would be so kind,’ Sirius says, sounding as dignified as he can under the circumstances. 

Remus mutters a quick charm, tucks his wand behind his ear and pulls together the more accommodating waist of Sirius’s trousers. ‘Suck this in,’ he says, giving his stomach a pat, and Sirius scowls at him but complies, and the trousers fasten comfortably under his belly.

Sirius is wearing a strange expression, a little huffy, a little uncertain. Remus had been sure that Sirius knew how he meant comments like that, and that Sirius was on board with a bit of gentle teasing from him, but now he’s doubting himself. 

‘I know it’s a lot,’ Sirius says gruffly, meeting Remus’s gaze. ‘The weight.’

Remus says carefully, ‘It isn’t that much.’ 

‘It’s a lot,’ Sirius repeats, ‘and I’m not likely to lose any of it. I’m not exactly trying to. You – you don’t have to like it, is what I’m saying. If this isn’t all right with you, then you don’t have to pretend that it is.’

Remus isn’t sure he has the right words to say how much he _adores_ Sirius like this, how to him it signals contentment and safety and beautiful domesticity, how Sirius looks better and seems happier than he has since they were teenagers. 

But if Sirius is uncomfortable now, saying something like that to him will hardly remedy the situation. Remus’s own cheeks are feeling a little hot just thinking it.

Instead, Remus asks, ‘Is it all right with you?’

‘Yes.’ He says it quietly, as if releasing a secret. But he says it without hesitation.

‘Then it’s all right with me.’

Sirius exhales. ‘All right then.’

Remus smiles at him, reaches out and brushes a lock of dark hair from his face. ‘Breakfast?’

*

The old house is pleasantly full over Christmas – unexpectedly so in the aftermath of the attack on Arthur at the Ministry. Remus had expected it would just be him and Sirius at Grimmauld Place for the holidays, with Kreacher lurking in the shadows and Sirius’s mother screeching obscenities from her portrait. 

But having the Weasleys here really brings the old place to life, all of them determined to enjoy themselves despite the circumstances. And no one more so than Sirius, who throws himself into the role of host, covering the house in tinsel and fake snow and persuading Mundungus to acquire a huge Christmas tree that he drapes in lights and candles and gaudy decorations. 

On Christmas morning, Remus wakes up next to Sirius, curtains drawn around the four poster bed, just like when he sneaked into Sirius's bed in their dorm at Hogwarts, whispering to each other between snickers and kisses that they’d have to be quick, James and Peter would be back soon.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Sirius murmurs to him. 

Remus burrows into Sirius’s shoulder, pushes a thigh in between Sirius’s thick ones. He rests a hand on Sirius’s chest, tangling his fingers in the dark hair, feeling the softness underneath. 

They wake up by degrees, warm and comfortable, before Remus eventually clambers out of bed, ignoring Sirius’s whines and the hands reaching to pull him back down. Sirius rises more reluctantly, sitting blearily in his boxers on the edge of the bed and squinting in the light. Then his eyes narrow as he spots the neatly wrapped parcel in Remus’s hands.

‘You little shit, Moony,’ he accuses. ‘We said no presents. I didn’t get you anything.’

Remus waves a hand. ‘It’s not much. I just thought you’d like it.’

In truth, although he had agreed with Sirius that they didn’t need to bother with presents, afterwards he had started thinking about how Sirius probably hadn’t had a Christmas present in fourteen years, and he realised how much he _wanted_ to buy something for Sirius, however small, how much he wanted to wrap it and watch Sirius open it. 

Sirius still looks rather suspicious as Remus hands him the gift, but his eyes light up as he rips open the brown paper and sees the box of peppermint toads inside. ‘Moony! God, I haven’t seen these since Hogwarts. Honeydukes?’

‘Of course. Their finest.’

‘I hope they taste the same.’ He’s wearing an amused little smile. ‘It’s just like you to remember.’ He opens the box and pops one of the little sweets into his mouth. ‘They’re still good,’ he confirms happily. ‘Maybe better.’ He offers them to Remus who waves the packet away.

The rest of the house will be stirring soon, and he knows how keen Sirius is for today to go well. There’s tea and coffee to make, bread to toast, eggs to scramble, which they’ll top with shimmering slices of smoked salmon. Afterwards, Sirius has Christmas dinner to tackle – quite a task when most people in attendance are familiar with Molly Weasley’s cooking – which involves turkey and stuffing, rich gravy, mountains of potatoes (roast _and_ mashed), Yorkshire puddings (at Sirius’s insistence, even though they are decidedly not traditional) and a plethora of colourful vegetables. 

‘Not so fast,’ Sirius tells him. ‘I’m pretty sure I need to give _you_ something.’ He waggles his dark eyebrows. ‘It’s only fair.’ He steps closer, running his hands along Remus’s narrow hips, teasing at the waistband of his boxers.

Remus informs him in no uncertain terms that he is not the lead in a bad romance novel, thank you very much. 

But when Sirius sinks to his knees, it would just be ungrateful to try and pull him back up.

*

On New Year's Eve, they set up camp in one of the drawing rooms, recently declared habitable after Sirius had removed a nest of doxies and banished yet another Boggart. Remus sits at one end of the couch, reading, and Sirius at the other. Harry is draped across an armchair, squinting up at the first of the _Practical Defensive Magic_ books that Sirius and Remus had given him for Christmas, while Ron and Hermione bicker across the room. 

The fire crackles in the grate, and the low buzz of conversation occasionally lights up the silence. Remus is sure that Sirius is moving gradually closer to him on the couch - adjusting his position every now and then in a way that results in him shifting an inch in Remus’s direction - getting up to look at something Harry wants to show him and then, upon his return, flopping down rather closer to the centre of the couch than before. 

Eventually he’s close enough that, after placing a hand on Remus’s arm to get his attention for something, he leaves it there for a moment, affectionate, a little proprietary. It’s such a small thing, the most innocent of touches, but Remus looks up to meet his eye. He’s so used to keeping things quiet with Sirius – not quite hiding it, but sitting just shy of acknowledging it around anyone else.

Harry clearly notices, looking up from his book, and flashes Sirius an embarrassed sort of smile. Remus wonders briefly if fighting Death Eaters and Dementors with your godfather and your teacher is less uncomfortable than the idea of the two of them fucking.

‘I _told_ you,’ he hears Ron say to Hermione in a whisper that carries. She shushes him fiercely.

After Harry, Ron and Hermione have gone to bed, Remus closes the remaining space between them on the couch and curls up against Sirius, who tucks him in under his shoulder. Remus rests a hand on the crest of his belly, firm with turkey sandwiches and Christmas cake, mince pies and firewhisky. 

‘Did you tell Harry?’ he asks. Sirius had mentioned a few weeks ago, faux-casual, that he might, the next time he saw Harry in person. ‘I’m glad he knows.’

‘Yeah,’ Sirius says, a little bashful, a little pleased. ‘Me too.’

*

As the new year breaks and the months drag on, Remus notes that Sirius has started to slow, a little, with the amount that he’s eating, and the amount that he’s gaining. Perhaps he’s reached a point where he’s comfortable. Perhaps he feels secure enough in all of this to know it isn’t going to be snatched away, that each good meal isn’t the last one he’ll enjoy for weeks.

But there are still days when Sirius eats so much that Remus can only marvel at it, putting away vast portions of rich stew and buttery potatoes, juicy steak and thick-cut chips, fragrant curry and fluffy rice as though he’s being paid to do it. Days when his clothes seem to have tightened yet again, or when he feels heavier, thicker against Remus’s wiry body, or when Remus catches a glimpse of him from a certain angle and he just looks _big,_ his size catching even Remus by surprise, sometimes. 

Remus has one of those days when he returns to number twelve, Grimmauld Place after three weeks away on Order business. Sirius fusses over him, telling him sternly that he looks tired and hungry and despairing that he doesn't look after himself properly. Remus is bullied into eating a ham and cheese sandwich with sharp chutney and fresh lettuce and then shepherded upstairs to bed. 

And all Remus can think is how big Sirius is now, how he feels warm and safe, feels like home.

‘Do they feed you at all on these missions?’ Sirius’s cool fingers slip into the waistband of Remus’s trousers, testing the available space. They are, admittedly, a little looser than Remus remembers. ‘You look thin, Moony.’ 

‘You don’t,’ Remus murmurs, fingers tracing along the curve of Sirius’s tummy. 

‘Thank you for my scheduled reminder that I got fat,’ Sirius says dryly, though he is clearly far from displeased, actually arching in a little to Remus’s touch. Remus takes this as encouragement to grope a little more shamelessly, to work his fingers into the softness below his belly button. ‘You’ve no fucking tact, have you, Remus?’

Remus hums. ‘Not where you are concerned.’

Warm, comfortable, somewhere on his way to sleep, he finds himself asking, ‘What does Padfoot look like?’ 

‘Sorry?’

‘As Padfoot, do you… do you still have _this_?’ Remus tries, unsure why it is so important to him that he ask this question. 

Sirius glances down to where Remus’s hand is still resting on his belly. ‘Bloody hell, Moony. You want to know if the dog version of me still has a paunch?’ 

Remus groans. ‘Don’t put it like _that.’_

‘You don’t want to fuck me as a dog, do you?’

‘ _Sirius.’_

Sirius is grinning, clearly enjoying this far too much. ‘You tell me. You should know, you see me as Padfoot often enough.’

‘Only at the full moon,’ Remus points out. Apparently, Remus-as-a-wolf isn’t inclined to ogle Sirius-as-a-dog. Which is probably for the best, all things considered. 

Sirius is looking at him a little too shrewdly. ‘This really gets you all hot under the collar, doesn’t it? Who would’ve thought it. You strange little pervert, Moony,’ he says fondly. 

‘You do exaggerate,’ Remus tells him loftily, and if his cheeks are starting to heat, and if Sirius may be straying somewhere close to the truth, Remus isn’t ready to acknowledge that just yet.

Sirius sighs dramatically. ‘Just for you, then.’ He shakes his head, rolls back his shoulders, and transforms into Padfoot before Remus’s eyes.

As a dog, Sirius has always been huge and wild, wiry under his thick black fur. He sits on his haunches, head cocked to one side, looking at Remus with deep, dark eyes. 

Remus can’t help but smile. He remembers nights not unlike this in the Potters' spacious house when James's parents were away. When Sirius and James and Peter would transform just for the hell of it, just because they could, just because they were young and free and brilliant. James and Sirius playfighting, racing each other around the garden, and Peter scuttling up trees or perching on Remus’s shoulder for safety. 

He forgets, sometimes, just how long ago that was. But he and Sirius have found each other again, after all that time, despite all the odds. And that means something. It means everything. 

‘You’re looking chubby,’ he tells the dog, who barks at him. ‘I’ll have to take you for more walks. Cut down on the treats.’

‘Such a git,’ Sirius says, human again, dark and soft and beautiful, his eyes sparkling. He pulls Remus towards him until he’s practically in his lap. 

‘You’re incredible like this,’ Remus says softly. He clears his throat. ‘You know I think that.’ It still doesn’t come naturally to either of them. Gentle sincerity. Direct, vulnerable confessions of feeling. Even with Sirius, even after all this time, it's harder than he wants it to be. ‘You know I love you.’

‘I know, Moony,’ Sirius murmurs. ‘I love you too.’

**Author's Note:**

> And then Sirius definitely doesn’t die, and he and Remus live happily ever after and are the wonderful queer parents Harry deserves, the end.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
